


Discovery

by IsolationShepherd



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV), The 100 (TV)
Genre: 16th Century, AU, Crossover, France - Freeform, Gay Sex, Homoeroticism, M/M, Male Slash, No Spoilers, Paris - Freeform, Porn, Smut, Story, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:39:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsolationShepherd/pseuds/IsolationShepherd
Summary: Marcus Kane is a Councillor on a space station that orbits the Earth called The Ark. He is one of around three thousand survivors of an apocalypse that occurred on the Earth a hundred years previously. He was born on the Ark and believes he will die there, having never seen the ground.Matthew de Clermont is thirty-seven in human years, but has in truth lived many lives, and when we meet him in this story he is living in Paris at the end of the sixteenth century.An encounter with an enchanted book brings Kane to Paris, where he meets Matthew. The two men are drawn to each other, and grow close as they run from enemies and fight for their lives. Kane is a long way from home, and doesn't know how to go back, or if he wants to.





	1. Étranger

****

**Alpha Station, The Ark, Earth Orbit, 2148**

Marcus Kane made his way to the lowest level of the Ark, to the furthest-flung room, the one that everyone had forgotten about. Everyone except him. He’d been searching for the code for years on and off, but it had taken a stroke of luck to find it. He’d been looking for contraband, of the kind you could inhale, and careful following of the usual suspects had netted him their hiding place, in a draw in a little-used room deep in the bowels of Alpha Station. Also in the drawer was a book of codes, and Kane had taken it down to the secret room whenever he had a spare moment and meticulously worked his way through the many pages. Finally, two weeks ago he’d found the right code, and entry to the room and its long-forgotten treasures was his.

A lot of what was in the room was useless junk, some of it so old it fell apart when Kane touched it. Amongst the dust and the rubbish, however, was a pot of gold for a curious man like Kane, a small library of books, some of them so ancient they were made before the invention of the printing press, the words scratched onto the paper with the careful, talented quills of an illuminator. Kane had been down to the room every day since, slowly reading his way through the history of the Earth he would never stand on.

The current volume propped on the desk before him was older than the rest. It had a heavy leather cover, and the paper inside was thin, almost translucent, of the type Kane thought was called vellum. It was ridiculously old. There was no date, but Kane suspected it was fourteenth or fifteenth century. He turned the pages carefully. Each chapter was devoted to a building and its history. The University of Paris at the Sorbonne. The Louvre, protected by four towers and a moat. Notre-Dame de Paris, with its dreaming spire and twin towers, sitting proudly on the Île de la Cité, its huge rose window staring out over the River Seine. The book was written in French, a language Kane knew enough of to be able to read it, albeit slowly.

Kane traced a delicate finger over the shape of the building, trying to imagine how it would look, how it would feel. He had never seen or felt stone, or any natural product from Earth other than the soil that nurtured the Eden Tree. It looked bright in the picture, cold. He’d pondered the Earth thousands of times from his vantage point high on this orbiting space station, wondering what had survived. One hundred years since the apocalypse. Would the buildings have crumbled? Would the radiation have eaten away at them? Or would they be still standing, worn down perhaps, covered with new forms of vegetation, but recognisable? Perhaps Notre-Dame was still on the Île de la Cité, waiting for them to discover it again.

 

**Université de Paris, Rue Saint Jacques, Paris, 1579**

Matthew de Clermont opened the heavy book with a sigh that was part anticipation and part resignation. Another year gone by and he had the same hopes as he did every anniversary, that this time something would have changed, that the book would respond to him again like Marianne had promised one day it would. At the same time, he knew that the witch’s enchantment would hold strong, for he had not yet paid his penance, and the spell would not be broken, no matter how much he wished for it.

He turned the pages carefully, scanning the drawings of the Paris he knew so well. So much had changed in the centuries since this book was created, and yet the city was still recognisable, the ancient monuments to man’s greatness still standing, and probably would for centuries to come. Would Matthew one day witness their demise? He hoped not. Some things were meant to live forever. Like him.

He teased the last page open, wanting to prolong the moment, the fine balance of possibility that he could maintain while he didn’t know for sure the answer to his yearly question. He let the thin vellum fall and the words of the witch’s curse were revealed. He traced them with his long fingers, delicately, so the ink would not smudge. He whispered them in his slow, deep voice, an incantation, a desperate prayer to the elements, but nothing happened. Another year, another disappointment. He closed the book and laid his hand on the leather cover. Never cross a witch. Especially one who’s in love with you. He ran his fingers through his short, dark hair, then stood. His fellow scholars in the bibliothèque ignored him as he strode past them. They had no idea who he was, that the Shadow Prince walked among them, and long may that last.

 

**Alpha Station, The Ark, Earth Orbit, 2148**

Kane was getting to the end of this book, the bulk of the pages on the left-hand side outweighing those on the right and making it difficult to hold the book open without damaging its precious spine. He held the left side up so that the last few pages on the right lay flat and turned them. They were an index of some kind, not of the contents of the book but of names. A long list of ancient-sounding French names with dates next to them. The dates had a from and a to, but they were relatively short, so Kane didn’t think they were birth and death dates, unless everyone involved with this book died before the age of ten. The last name had no end date. It said _Matthew de Clermont 1574 -,_ and then the space was blank. Were these people who owned the book, or borrowed it from some ancient library? If so, then Matthew de Clermont had never returned it. Somehow, it had made its way through the centuries and ended up orbiting the Earth with the last survivors of the human race.

Kane turned the final page and was surprised to see a short verse, like a prayer, in different ink to the rest of the book. He read the words out loud in his careful French. It was a poem of sorts. Suddenly his chest tightened, and he couldn’t breathe. He felt as though he was turning inside out, like everything inside him was being squeezed and then expanded. The pain was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Was he having a heart attack? Who would find him down here in the unknown depths of the Ark? He had to get out, he...

 

**Université de Paris, Rue Saint Jacques, Paris, 1579**

Matthew reached the door of the University, put his hand on the ornate brass doorknob and was about to turn it when a gush of wind blew past him, knocking him sideways. He looked around but the door was still closed. Pain twisted in his chest and he put his hand over the heart that hadn’t beat within him for a thousand years. It didn’t beat now, but he felt the ghost of its previous life. He stood still, closed his eyes, blocked out everything except that ghost of a heartbeat. It didn’t belong to him. It was someone else’s heart. He could hear the rapid pulse of it, too fast, too strong. Whoever it belonged to was frightened.

He concentrated further. The inhale and exhale of rapid breaths, the bitter-sweet scent of adrenaline, and something earthy, masculine. The heart belonged to a man. A man who was in grave danger. Matthew turned and hurried back to the bibliothèque. The book was where he had left it on the table. He flipped the book and opened it directly to the last page. The words were gone. He checked the page before and the one before that, but that contained the list of names as it always did. Only the incantation was missing. If he had a heart it would be beating fast now with joy. It had worked! Finally! He had summoned someone, but who? And what kind of trouble were they in?

 

**Whereabouts Unknown**

Kane opened his eyes and his mind reeled with shock and confusion. The Ark’s cold metal walls had been replaced by huge slabs a dirty yellow in colour that rose on either side of him into a black sky. Something blew against his face, making him shiver. It was unseen, like a wind perhaps, but how? Something else rushed past him, pushing him against the wall, then another, and another. It was a group of people, screaming in a language he couldn’t understand because it was spoken so fast. He moved along the wall, for that’s what it clearly was, and found an alcove. He pressed himself into it as more people came past. Kane’s heart was beating out of his chest. What the hell was happening?

He must be dreaming, but if he was then it was the most vivid dream he’d ever had, for it aroused all his senses. There was a foul smell and the air was thick with smoke. It clogged Kane’s lungs, made him cough harshly. Usually in his dreams the Earth’s air tasted sweet, but this was bitter, acrid. The smoke got in his eyes, made them water. He rubbed them with the back of his hand and when he looked at it there were black smudges that smelled of the smoke. He licked one of the smudges and it too was bitter. Fallout from whatever was on fire.

There was an orange glow in the sky to the left of his position, in the direction the people were running. It was shades of red, orange and yellow like the many sunsets he’d seen over the Earth. He screwed up his courage and followed the next group of people to go past. It was dark enough between these imposing walls, but he kept to the shadows nevertheless. He could see the clothing these people were wearing was different to his. They wore thick leggings and layers of cloth covered by some kind of heavy tunic. Kane was noticeably out of place in his zippered jacket, combat pants and boots.

He followed them down the narrow street and was shocked to appear suddenly in a large, open square. A crowd had gathered ahead of him and were shouting and cheering at something, but Kane couldn’t see what it was from his position at the back of the square. He risked getting closer, moving along the edge of the crowd until he found a palisade with large wooden pillars. The smoke was denser here; it was all he could taste. His chest wheezed and he suppressed the urge to cough. A man and a woman were locked together in an age-old dance beneath the wooden structure. Kane stared at them for a moment, the sight so incongruous he at first didn’t realise what they were doing. The woman noticed him, stared back. She lifted her leg higher, put her hands on the man’s arse, pushed him towards her, all the while staring at Kane. He looked away. He found an area that gave him a better view of the square and he secreted himself next to a large wooden pillar and looked out. 

Again, it took him a moment to understand what he was looking at. Flames were dancing around a large wooden stake, shooting glowing embers and trails of thick black smoke into the sky. An unearthly sound emanated from amidst the flames, a rendering into the night of a ghastly scream that assaulted his ears, made the blood run cold in his veins. There was a person within the fire, a woman, her skirts a girdle of fire, her hair flaming tendrils of orange-red lifted into the air by the wind. Her face was contorted with pain, her mouth a gaping O of anguish and torment.

Kane cried out “No!” he couldn’t help it, and people in front turned to look at him. He melted back into the shadows.

“Qui est là?” someone said, and more people looked in his direction.

“Un anglais,” said someone else.

Kane turned, and came face to face with the woman he’d been staring at earlier. She shook her breasts at him.

“Tu me veux?” she said. “Deux livres.”

“Non, merci,” he mumbled, having realised the people were speaking French. He backed away, found another narrow street behind the palisade and ran down that, not stopping until he was sure he wasn’t being followed. He walked to the end of the street, looked out from behind the wall. A great river lay before him, silvery-grey in the pale moonlight. Beyond it a large building rose, with twin towers, a soaring spire, gothic arches and a huge rose window Kane recognised immediately. Notre-Dame, the building he’d been reading about in the book. He was in Paris, sometime in the middle ages judging by his surroundings which were similar now he thought about it to those in the book. What in the hell?

 

**Rue Saint Jacques, Quartier Latin, Paris, 1579**

Matthew wrapped his cloak around his face as he hurried along the street towards a fire that was glowing in the distance. The air was heavy with smoke, which didn’t bother him as his lungs couldn’t breathe it in, but he wanted to appear the same as everyone else, and they were rushing in the same direction, cloaks or similar cloths covering their noses and mouths.

“Qu'est-ce qui se passe?” he said to a fellow traveller who was keeping pace with him.

“Ils brûlent une sorcière,” replied the man.

A witch burning? How had he not known about this? Too caught up in his book. It couldn’t be the man he’d summoned, because that had only just happened, but he was caught up in it somehow, Matthew could smell his fear, taste the smoke that was clogging his lungs. He quickened his pace, was tempted to use his speed, but didn’t dare. There were too many people around, and the mood of the crowd was already murderous. Matthew de Clermont hadn’t survived a thousand years as a vampire to die in the street at the hands of a Parisian mob. 

 

**Île de la Cité, Paris, 1579**

Kane had crossed the river, creeping along the parapet of the bridge, trying to keep to the shadows. The people were fewer in number here, most still gathered on the other side in the square. He was aiming for the cathedral, hoping it would offer sanctuary, or somewhere to hide as a minimum while he worked out what the hell was going on and what he was going to do about it. He made it to the door when a harsh voice cut through the dark.

“Qui es-tu?” the man said, frowning at Kane. He was young, with a straggly beard and long brown hair tied back. He was wearing dark brown leggings and a padded tunic belted around the waist.

Kane didn’t move. He weighed up his options. He could try to run, but to where? Another man joined the first.

“Qui es-tu?” the man said again, louder this time, vehement almost.

“Marcus Kane,” Kane replied, and he looked slightly past the man, not wanting to look him in the eye, provoke him in any way.

“D'où venez-vous, Marcus Kane?”

The man wanted to know where he was from. Kane frantically tried to call up every fact he knew about Paris, but his mind drew a blank. Damn it, man. Come on! He remembered the book, the drawings.

“Université de Paris,” he replied.

The man looked him up and down. More men had gathered by now, enough to call it a small crowd. Kane’s heart rate increased. He was in trouble and he knew it.

“Vos vêtements sont étranges. Vous n'êtes pas de Paris.”

Kane wasn’t certain what he’d said, but he understood the word strange, and you are not from Paris. They didn’t believe him. What else could he say, or do?

“S'il vous plaît excusez-moi,” he said, and he attempted to push past the man, as though he had somewhere he had to go.

“Non,” replied the man, and he stepped in front of Kane.

Kane tried to go past him again but another man blocked his way. Kane was sweating now despite the cold of the night. He was a strange man in a strange land and judging by what he’d seen earlier with the woman burning at the stake, the citizens of Paris didn’t take kindly to strange people. He hoped he wasn’t about to suffer the same fate as the woman, but he would not like to put a bet on it.

“Excusez-moi monsieur. Je voudrais partir.” Please let me leave, thought Kane, and he stood straighter, tried to look like he meant business.

The men looked at each other, copied his words and laughed. “You are no Frenchman,” said the man. “Je voudrais partir!” He laughed again, and Kane realised he must have misspoken.  

“Anglais,” shouted another man.

“Oui, anglais.” They thought he was British, an obvious mistake as they wouldn’t recognise an American accent.

“Une autre sorcière!” shouted someone else, and soon the words were spreading through the crowd.

“Sorcière! Sorcière! Sorcière!”

They thought he was a witch. It must be the night for burning them. The only way to save himself was to run. He took a deep breath, and then he pushed the man in front of him hard, managed to get past him. The other men crowded in on him, tried to grab hold but he pushed them away, put his head down, tried to barrel his way through them. Hands reached out to grab him, someone stuck out a leg and he didn’t see it until it was too late. He fell to the cobble, banged his head, saw stars for a moment. Feet kicked at him, men leaned over him, blocking out the sky. Hands grabbed at him, pulling him one way and another until he thought he was going to be torn in half. The chants split the air, wild in their intensity.

Then the man who had first accosted him broke through the crowd.

“Brûlez!” he said, and he pulled Kane up from the cobbles, dragged him stumbling back towards the bridge.

“Brûlez! Brûlez!”

Kane could translate that word easily enough. They were going to burn him at the stake like the woman he’d seen. He struggled but another man took his arm and he was dragged across the bridge and back to the square.

“No! No!” Kane screamed, but to no avail.


	2. Wanderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kane is dragged to the stake. Will Matthew save him in time?

**Rue Saint Jacques**

Matthew paused as he neared the Quai de Montebello and the river. Voices filled his head, an endless white noise of words and shouts and screams that he was struggling to separate out. He stepped into a recess where he would not be seen and closed his eyes. The voices started to become more distinct and he could hear shouts of Witch! Burn him! He concentrated harder, and it was like clouds parting to reveal the sun. A man’s voice came through, sonorous, but high with fear. He was shouting in English, telling them they had made a mistake, he was not a witch. There is no point, Matthew said to the man in his head. They do not care. The woman they are burning now is probably not a witch, just someone who has crossed a man, or has been caught using herbs or with another woman. Sometimes there didn’t have to be a reason.

He hurried towards the square where the church used to stand, hoping he would not be too late.

 

**Quai de Montebello**

Kane fought every last step of the way towards the centre of the square. The flames around the stake had died down a little. The woman he had seen burning earlier was now a charred skeleton, hanging loosely from her smoking bounds. Her fate was to be Kane’s. That blood-curdling scream she’d emitted would come from his mouth. His face would be distorted in pain like hers. What the hell had happened? If this was a dream, he’d like to wake up now. It was all too real. His body ached from the kicking he’d received at the hands of the mob. His lungs still heaved with the smoke he’d inhaled. His eyes were watery and sore. He knew in his heart that this was not a dream, that somehow he’d been transported through time to an Earth that was even more brutal than the Ark could be, and that was saying something.

“I am not a witch!” he shouted as the men dragged him towards the stake. He’d given up trying to speak French because he clearly wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’m a visitor from England!” He wasn’t English, and he wasn’t visiting from there, but he didn’t think telling them he was an American from space would be helpful. They’d put the torch to the flame all the quicker.

No one listened. Their blood was up, buoyed by some collective madness that had settled over them. They wanted their sacrifice, and he was it. It used to be that his biggest problem was lack of supplies, a looming oxygen crisis, and an annoying woman named Abby Griffin who did her best to thwart his every move. He’d take a tongue-lashing by her any day over being burned at the stake. Just about.

The heat of the flames made him sweat as they drew closer to them. The men holding him pushed him towards a tall man swathed in black cloth with a black mask over his face.

“Une autre sorcière,” said the young man with the straggly beard.

“Comment savez-vous?” replied the man with the mask.

“Il a de la magie. Nous l'avons vu.”

“I am not a witch,” said Kane. “I am a visitor to your country. I just came to look at the buildings.” He gestured around at the looming edifices of Notre-Dame and the Hôtel-Dieu across the water.

The crowd gasped at his raised arm and pointed towards it. Kane looked at it. His wristwatch was visible. Damn. They probably thought it was some kind of magical device, which he supposed it was to a mediaeval person.

“La magie! La magie!” The crowd took up the chant, and with that Kane’s fate was sealed.

He was dragged to the stake, the heat from the embers seeping through his boots. He hoped they wouldn’t melt. It had taken a lot of effort to find some as stylish as these on the Ark. His hands were bound in front of him, and then his ankles. He was dragged towards the stake, the flames already licking around his legs, burning him. This was it. The end of his life. He’d thought he would die in the airlock, floated out into space following a coup or by a vengeful Abby Griffin. Never in his life would he have thought his end would come tied to the stake in mediaeval France.

\---

Matthew pushed through the crowd, elbowing people out of his way. He could smell the man strongly now, the musky scent of fear. The heart he could hear beating was almost out of control, and then it slowed, and the man’s breaths became softer as well. He was accepting his fate. Matthew had to hurry.

He broke through the crowd and saw the man he’d summoned for the first time. He was tall and slim, with short, dark hair like Matthew’s. A curl lay slicked against his brow. He was standing straight, his nose in the air, surveying those around him with a haughty glare that would have an intelligent man shaking. The crowd were not intelligent, however, and paid no heed to the man’s disdain. The executioner was straightening a coil of rope, ready to loop it around the man’s body and tie him to the stake. There was no time to spare.

Matthew pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, fastened it tightly so it would not fall down, then he ran at full speed towards the man, across the flames which he could barely feel, through the smoke he could not breathe in, and grabbed the man, lifting him into his arms and fleeing with him. The whole operation took less than a second. The crowd left behind would be stunned, having seen only a blur of colour, and felt a rush of air as Matthew passed. He didn’t care about that. All he cared about was getting the man to safety, for all of this was Matthew’s fault, and he had to put it right.

\---

Kane opened his eyes, expecting to see the flames leaping around him, but instead he was lying on something soft, looking up at an ornate wood-panelled ceiling. Had he jumped time again? What the hell was going on? He tried to sit up, and started coughing, and once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. A figure appeared beside him, sat down, making whatever Kane was lying on dip. Kane pulled himself into a sitting position, turned to look at the figure. It was a man with short, dark hair similar to his, startling blue eyes that were so dark they almost seemed black, a thin face with a long straight nose and sharp cheekbones. He was wrapped in a dark woollen cloak. Kane had never seen him before in his life. He wasn’t from the Ark.

“Who are you?” he said, before breaking into another coughing fit.

“Don’t try to talk,” said the man in a clipped voice that to Kane’s ears sounded English with a hint of a French accent. “Drink this.” He proffered a goblet to Kane who took it and looked at it, bringing it to his own long, mostly-straight nose and sniffing it.

“What is it?”

“Wine. Red wine. It is good for you,” he said when Kane pulled a face.

“I have never had wine.” He’d read about it of course, knew it was cultivated from grapes in warm countries like France, but the Ark had never seen a grape, or any kind of fresh fruit.

“Then this is your first time. I envy you.” The man gave Kane a small smile that revealed perfect teeth behind his thin lips.

Kane wasn’t sure he could trust him. For all he knew this liquid was some magic potion that would render him unconscious or incapable or God knows what. But this man had rescued him from the flames, so why would he then kill him? What the hell, it wasn’t as if this night could get any worse, and he was terribly thirsty. Kane took a sip. It was bitter at first, and it coated his tongue, seeping into all his tastebuds. Then something happened; a sweetness grew. Kane had no frame of reference for what he was tasting, but it was pleasant, and it flowed through his veins, warming them.

“What do you think?” said the man, leaning closer to Kane, eager to get his opinion.

“It’s good. Thank you.”

“Can you taste the blackberries, the hint of vanilla?” His blue eyes sparked, and Kane warmed further beneath their intense gaze.

“I have no idea what those taste like,” he replied as he took another sip so that he wouldn’t have to look at the man’s eyes for a moment. There was something disturbing about them.

The man frowned at him, and then smiled again. “It is of no matter.”

Kane looked around as he drank. He was sitting on a bed, a huge bed he’d seen described in books as a four-poster. It was made of a dark wood and had a post at each end, above which hung material in rich, deep colours of red and gold. Kane was lying on top of a heavy comforter that was soft beneath his fingers when he stroked it. The walls of the room were wood-panelled and ancient pictures in gilt frames hung from chains attached to a rail above the panels. The room was lit only with candles in gold holders.

“Where am I?” he said to the man.

“You are in my rooms in the Université de Paris, lying in my bed.”

“Oh.” Kane tried to get off the bed and something within him screamed with pain. “Argh!” he shouted, and he gripped his side. It was as though that action freed up something in his mind because suddenly he was aware of pains all over his body, from his head to his toes.

“Lie down,” said the man. “Let me look at you.”

“I’m okay,” said Kane, not wanting this strange man to examine him. He still didn’t know who he was or why he had rescued him.

“You are clearly injured, let me find out how. You can trust me.”

Kane sighed. What choice did he have? “Tell me your name at least before you poke about me.”

“Matthew,” said the man. “Matthew de Clermont.”

“de Clermont?” Kane was shocked to hear the man’s name. It was the one from the book he’d been reading before all this happened.

“Have you heard of me?” Matthew examined the zipper on Kane’s jacket, feeling the metal with his fingertips. He grasped the zip, tugged it down. Kane winced as he pulled his arms gently out of the sleeves.

“I was reading a book, before I arrived here. Your name was in it.”

“Ah.” Matthew nodded. He didn’t look surprised to hear this. “What is your name?” he said before Kane could ask any more questions.

“Marcus Kane.”

“Marcus? Meaning warlike, and Kane meaning wanderer. Hold up your arms.” Matthew pulled Kane’s threadbare sweater and t-shirt over his head. He laid them on the edge of the bed.

“Some might say that is accurate; the first part at least,” said Kane with a small laugh.

“Matthew means gift from God.” Matthew ran his hands over Kane’s arms, feeling his muscles. His touch made Kane shiver, for it was cold and yet strangely exhilarating.

“Is that accurate?” said Kane.

“You will have to tell me.” Matthew smiled at him, then he pushed Kane forward so he was bent towards his knees and examined his back, fingers playing along the ridges in Kane’s spine. “Okay, lie down.”

Kane did as he was asked.

“I will need to take these...leggings off,” said Matthew, gesturing to Kane’s pants.

“I can do that.” Kane raised his hips and eased the pants down his thighs. He grimaced with the pain and didn’t object when Matthew pulled them the rest of the way down. He lay there clad only in his underpants, which were grey from too many times in the laundry, and also full of holes. He was embarrassed in front of this neatly-trimmed man in his fine cloak woven with gold thread. Matthew didn’t appear to notice, or if he did, he made no comment.

“I don’t need to touch you to see what is causing most of your pain,” Matthew said, and Kane looked down at his torso. It was one huge bruise from his right side to his left from where he’d been kicked. His legs were dotted purple and blue as well. Matthew pressed his hands to Kane’s belly, palpating the muscles beneath. He poked his fingers into the clefts between them, felt along the bones of his hips and thighs, down to his calves and his ankles which were sore from the rope.

Kane let out a soft grunt, and Matthew looked at him sharply.

“Did that hurt?”

“Only a little.” In truth, the grunt was more one of pleasure. Kane hadn’t been touched by human hands in a long while, and it felt good despite the pain that accompanied every pass of Matthew’s delicate fingers.

Matthew sat on the bed and looked at Kane. He reached out, brushed a curl of hair from his forehead. “Did you hit your head?”

“Yes. One of them tripped me. I fell to the ground.”

“Did you fall asleep when this happened?”

“No, but it went black briefly.”

Matthew examined Kane’s head, parting the sweat-slicked hairs, feeling for cuts and bumps. At last he sat back and nodded. “I think you will live,” he said, and he flashed a brief smile.

“Thank you for taking care of me. You did not have to.”

“I’m afraid I did have to.” Matthew took Kane’s goblet and walked over to a large wooden sideboard. He got another goblet and poured wine into both, then returned to the bed. He handed one to Kane, then sat on the bed and took a drink from his own goblet.

“Why did you have to?” Kane took another long draught. This wine was definitely growing on him. It was so much nicer than the moonshine he sometimes drank on the Ark.

“Because you being here is all my fault.”

\---

Matthew regarded Marcus as the man took a sip of his wine and looked back at him with cool dark eyes that hid a lot. He’d been stoic throughout the examination, only grunting once with pain. He must have a thousand questions burning within him but you wouldn’t know it from looking at him. He was clearly a man used to holding his private thoughts close to his chest. Matthew could relate to that.

He had a thousand questions himself, the chief one being where had Marcus come from? His clothes were the strangest garments Matthew had ever seen and he’d lived a thousand years. The cloth was delicate but strong, held together with metal. It was tightly-woven and he had many layers, which must be expensive, and yet every item was full of holes, including the strange undergarment he had covering his private parts. None of Matthew’s vast experience had prepared him for someone like Marcus.

“Why is it your fault?” Marcus looked at him with those unfathomable dark eyes. Matthew would have to tell him the truth; he owed him that at least. He hoped there would be no consequences. He was settled here in Paris, didn’t want to have to move yet again.

“I think I summoned you here.”

Marcus frowned as he thought. “The poem in the back of the book?”

Matthew nodded. “You read it?”

“I did. My French isn’t great, which is how I ended up like this.” He indicated his battered body. “But I can read it well enough.”

“I spoke it as well today. It must have been at the same time. That is why you are here.”

“But I’m not from this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“What year is this?”

“Fifteen Seventy-nine.”

Marcus gasped. “Fifteen Seventy-nine,” he repeated. “Wow.”

“Are you saying you are not from this year?” Matthew was confused.

“I’m not from this century, or this millennium.”

“When are you from?”

“When I left it was Twenty-one Forty-eight.” Marcus folded his arms in front of his chest. He looked at Matthew with an amused expression. He had managed to shock him, and that was clearly giving him some small pleasure.

“That is nearly six hundred years into the future.”

“It is.”

Matthew stood, paced the room. “This is unprecedented.” There was nothing in the history, in any of the texts he had read, and he had read them all, about someone travelling that far through time.

“And yet here I am.”

“Do you have evidence from your time?”

“Not really,” replied Marcus. “I didn’t think to pack for a journey to the sixteenth century.” He laughed, and it was musical for a man with a low rumble of a voice. “I suppose there is this.” He unfastened something from his wrist, handed it to Matthew.

Matthew turned it over in his hands. It was made of leather and had a square face upon it that seemed to be made of some kind of tough glass. Marcus leaned across, pressed a button on the side. The object lit up, and figures appeared upon it. 22:10 they read, and when Marcus pressed the button again another set of figures appeared reading 23rd September 2148.

“Extraordinary,” said Matthew.

“It’s a watch, a timepiece.” Kane took the object back and replaced it on his wrist.

“I have seen a timepiece in Germany, but it did not look like that.”

“They have evolved a lot over time.”

Matthew studied Marcus. It was hard to tell of course, but he seemed human. He hadn’t used magic to save himself so it was unlikely he was a witch or a daemon, and Matthew would have smelt it immediately if he was a vampire. What an opportunity this was, to see into the future, to learn what would happen to humans, witches, vampires and daemons. “What is it like in your time?”

“Before we get to know each other better do you mind if I put my clothes back on? I feel a little underdressed,” said Marcus, gesturing to his clothes which Matthew had folded and placed neatly on the end of the bed.

“It would be better if you dressed more appropriately. I often have visitors and they would be suspicious if they saw you in your future clothes. I have items you can wear.” Matthew moved to his wardrobe, selected a pair of brown leggings and a warm tunic in a rich red. He placed them on the bed, helped Marcus to stand.

“Thank you.”

“We do not wear anything beneath the leggings.” Matthew gestured to the grey garment that hung off Marcus’s slim hips.

“You don’t wear underpants?”

“If that is what you call them. The leggings provide sufficient support for the necessary area. And access, should it be required.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow at that. He eased the garment down, seemingly having no shame uncovering the area that had before been protected by the cloth. Matthew looked at what was revealed because he was curious. Marcus’s cock was thick and full, even at rest. Very nice, he thought. Very nice indeed. His blood quickened and he felt the stirrings of desire, which surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d craved a man, not since Bilal in Iraq, and that had been a couple of centuries ago.

Marcus bent to pull on the leggings and Matthew watched the play of his muscles as he stretched. He was lithe and lean but strong. He must do physical work wherever he was from, but his skin was pale, as though he rarely saw the sun. Marcus adjusted his cock and balls, found the pocket within the leggings that would support them.

“You are comfortable in your own skin,” Matthew said, more as a statement than a question.

Marcus looked up at Matthew, surprise on his face. “Where I come from I trained in the Guard, erm, l’armée, and we lived in close proximity to each other. There was no point hiding.” He donned the tunic, fastened the woollen belt around his waist. “How do I look?” he said, turning from side to side so Matthew could see him from all angles.

“Like a true sixteenth century gentleman.”

“I might look the part, but I won’t fool any visitors when I open my mouth. They will soon know.”

“They will not know. You are a professor visiting me from England. It is very natural.”

“Is that what you are, a professor?”

“I am always a professor. Let us move to my living quarters,” he said when Marcus frowned. “We can talk in greater comfort there.” He opened a heavy wooden door and gestured for Marcus to walk through.


	3. Fleeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew reveals his story to Marcus, and the two men are in danger.

What Matthew called his living quarters was a large room partly lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves made from the same dark wood as the wall panels. Kane walked over to them, moving surprisingly freely in the heavy woollen tunic. The books were huge and old, like the one he’d been reading, all leather bound, some with stitched spines and some with brass clasps worn black with age and use. He ran his finger down one of the spines. He was touching something that was more than six hundred years old, possibly nearly a thousand. It was overwhelming. A small desk sat in the corner, made of a dark wood with ornate legs in the shape of scrolls and a dark green blotter inlaid into the surface. A quill and twin inkpots sat next to a pile of books and a candle in a silver holder. If ever Kane was in doubt as to which century he was in, here was the proof.

“Fourteenth century Venetian writing desk,” Matthew said in his slow, deep voice as Kane picked up the quill to examine it. “Walnut inlaid with mother of pearl. I picked it up in a charming little shop off the Piazza San Marco.”

“You collect antiques?”

Matthew laughed softly. “I am antique.”

Kane looked at him closely. Matthew looked to be of a similar age to him. There were threads of grey in his hair so fine they were only noticeable when the light caught them a certain way. He had a few laugh lines around his blue eyes and creases at the corners of his mouth when he smiled, but otherwise he was not what Kane would call antique. If he were, then that would make Kane the same, for he had noticed a few grey hairs lately. He probably had laughter lines too, if he ever laughed. “You are not that old,” he said.

Matthew bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Shall we sit?” He indicated two large chairs with high backs that were arranged in front of a large stone fireplace.

Kane sat on one and sank into the soft green material. He stroked the arm, the fibres silky beneath his touch. Matthew stoked the fire and a warm glow flooded the room. He poured them both another goblet of wine before sitting in the other chair.

They looked at each other, each taking a sip of their wine, deciding what to ask, what to say. At last Kane took a deep breath.

“You said you summoned me.”

“I did say that, yes.”

“How? And why?”

Matthew held the wine glass to his nose, inhaled deeply. “A pity you don’t know what a blackberry tastes or smells like. How is that possible?”

“You’re stalling.”

“I am.” His lips curved in a half smile. “The book you read, that we both read, was enchanted.”

“Like with a spell?” Kane had read a lot of books, mainly from the Ark’s digital library. He knew about fairytales, myths and legends, had been fascinated by them as a young man, but they were just that, myths, tales told to entertain, or frighten. They weren’t true, or so he’d always believed, and yet here he was in another time, another world.

“Yes. I came across it a few years ago, realised the poem on the last page had certain properties. It was able, on occasion, to provide me with something I desired. There had to be need, though. I couldn’t just order up anything I wanted.”

“I see,” said Kane, although his mind was reeling. He went to take a sip of his drink then stopped. Better to stay clear-headed for this conversation.

“A few years ago, five to the day in fact, I crossed a witch who was in love with me.”

“A witch?”

“Yes. Lovely woman, very attractive. Not my type though.” Matthew drank some more wine, looked Kane in the eye. Kane wondered what Matthew’s type was, but he didn’t want to ask, wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. “I was...let’s say, less than gallant with her, and she cursed the book so I could no longer summon what I needed.”

Kane tried to think this through while Matthew talked. What kind of world had witches and spells and people who could summon up their every desire? Was it the Earth from the past or some kind of parallel universe?

“Marianne said. That was her name, Marianne. She said that one year, on the anniversary of the curse, the book would respond to me again. So, every year I have spoken the words, and hoped and wished, but nothing has happened. Until today.”

“You wished... for me?” Kane shook his head, struggling to wrap his mind around what Matthew was telling him. Why would Matthew summon up a man he’d never met or heard of from a future he couldn’t know existed?

“Heavens, no.” Matthew smiled, a broad smile that made his eyes spark in the firelight. “Often the book sends me something I don’t know I need until it arrives. Perhaps that is you.”

“I can’t think why you would need me.”

“Time will tell. The book is never wrong.” Matthew smiled at Kane again.

Kane warmed beneath his gaze. It was the wine, the heat of the fire, the drawn-out metre of Matthew’s sonorous voice. It was lulling him, making him drowsy. Wait! Was Matthew a witch? Had he put a spell on Kane? Kane sat up, stared at Matthew.

“No,” Matthew said, as though he could hear Kane’s thoughts. “I am not a witch.”

Kane thought back to earlier that night, to the moment he was rescued by this man. One minute he was bound and being prepared for the stake, the next he was waking up in his bed. “If you’re not a witch, how did you know you had summoned me? How did you know where I was?”

Matthew rubbed his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip. “I sensed that something had happened, and I checked the book. The prayer had gone, so I knew it had worked. Then I... I heard you.”

“You heard me? Were you close by?”

“No, I was here, at the Université.”

“Then how could you hear me?”

Matthew put down his goblet, leaned closer to Kane, stared at him intently. “If I tell you, you mustn’t tell a soul. My life will be in your hands. Do you understand?”

Kane didn’t understand, but he was drawn to this man somehow. They had a connection that couldn’t be denied. “I will not betray you. You saved me after all.”

Matthew sat back, satisfaction playing across his face. “Good. Humans are not the only creatures who walk the Earth, Marcus. There are witches, as you now know, and daemons.” He paused. “And then there are vampires.”

“Vampires? Like Dracula?”

“Do you mean Dracul, Prince of Wallachia?”

“I, erm, I don’t know. No. He’s. Well he’s in books. He’s a myth, a story people tell each other to get through long nights.”

“Ah. Is that how we end up? A story to scare the children?” He sighed. “I should be surprised, but I am not.”

“Are you telling me you’re a vampire?” Kane said, his pulse picking up as his heart raced. He went hot and then cold.

“I am, Marcus, yes. I am a vampire. But don’t worry,” he said as he must have seen the expression of shock on Kane’s face. “You are safe with me.”

Kane put his hand to his head, rubbed his brow. What Matthew had just told him was ridiculous, there was no other word for it. He didn’t feel threatened by Matthew because he was struggling to believe a word he said, and it wasn’t because he didn’t trust him, strangely he did. It was just so incongruous. Nothing Kane had ever known had prepared him for this piece of information.

“Can you prove it?”

“It is not as simple as that.”

“Why not? Vampires drink blood, don’t they?” Kane held out his arm to Matthew. “Take my blood, show me who you are.”

Matthew looked at Kane, shook his head gently. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not? If you are who you say you are, prove it.”

“If I were to taste you in that way I might not be able to stop myself. I could kill you.”

“You just said I was safe with you.”

“You are, as long as we don’t do anything like that.” Matthew put his hand on Kane’s wrist, his long fingers stroking the vein that was prominent. He emitted a low growl that made all the hairs on Kane’s body erect. “We must maintain a boundary,” he said in a low voice.

Kane’s pulse had quickened at Matthew’s words, and he knew the man could feel it beneath his fingers. Was he imagining Kane’s blood as it pumped around his body? Was he wondering what it would taste like? He hadn’t dropped Kane’s hand and for some reason Kane didn’t want him to. “How did it happen?” he whispered.

“How did I become a vampire?”

Kane nodded.

“That’s a long story.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“I will, but now is not the time.”

“You’re old, though, ancient as you said?”

“I have lived many lives, yes. A thousand years.”

Kane inhaled sharply. A thousand years! It was mindblowing. “The history you’ve seen,” he said.

“The history I’ve shaped.” Matthew broke the contact, sat back in the chair, crossed one long leg over the other. He sipped his wine, looked at Kane, his eyes so dark now they looked black.

“I can’t even imagine it,” said Kane as he finally took another sip of his own wine.

“It flies faster than you think.”

Kane nodded, although he didn’t know why. He was adjusting now, he supposed, to the strangeness of it all. Whatever the truth behind his current situation, he was in it and had to make the best of it until he could get home, if he could.

“Do you have no idea what I’m here to help you with?”

Matthew shook his head. “It will reveal itself in time.”

“I don’t have time, though. I have to get back to my life. How am I going to do that?”

“I’m afraid I have never summoned anyone across time, Marcus, so I have no idea.”

\---

Matthew watched Marcus as he took in this information. He was shocked, worried, as well he might be. What must it be like to be ripped out of your life and deposited into a strange, dangerous world where everyone wanted to kill you including the man who’d saved you? No wonder his pulse had been rapid when Matthew had taken his hand. It was true that he’d witnessed a lot of history, but so had Marcus, albeit through books. He was a guide to the future, to everything that happened over the next half a millennium. Matthew could contain his curiosity no longer.

“You are from England.” he said. “What is it like there in your time? Is it still a Protestant country?” Something dark flickered across Marcus’s face at Matthew’s question.

“Erm, well I’m not from England. My ancestors are from America. Have you heard of Christopher Columbus?”

“The great explorer, yes of course.”

“Well the land he found is settled by lots of people over the coming centuries and that’s where my ancestors are from.”

“But you are not?”

“No.” Marcus looked down at his feet and Matthew wondered why. What was he afraid to say? “I have never set foot on Earth before today.”

“I...” It was Matthew’s turn to be shocked. “What do you mean?”

“I live on a space station that orbits the Earth. We are the fourth generation to live there, and none of us has ever been to the ground before now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this.” Marcus’s dark brown eyes were pain-filled when he looked at Matthew. “There was a terrible event a hundred years ago in my time, and the Earth became unliveable. The only people to survive were those who were in space at the time of the apocalypse. That includes my great grandparents.”

“Nobody is left on the Earth?” Matthew couldn’t take this news in.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“What about my kind? What about vampires?”

Marcus shook his head solemnly. “Up until just now I didn’t think vampires or witches were real, so I can’t be certain that there are none on the Ark, but I have known everyone there all my life, and I have no reason to think they are anything but human.”

Matthew stood, walked over to the fireplace. He leaned on the mantle, put his head on his arm. The end of his race only a few centuries from now. A great sadness overwhelmed him. No more vampires, witches or daemons. The humans had won, and then destroyed everything they’d gained. He too must be dead, otherwise Marcus would have recognised him with so few people left.

He felt a hand on his back and turned to see Marcus looking at him with sadness and concern on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Matthew pursed his lips. “It is not your fault.”

“Nevertheless.” He gave Matthew’s shoulder a brief rub. “It must be a terrible shock.”

“Thank you.” Matthew nodded, then returned to his chair, because the proximity of the man was warming his blood in ways that were not good, and certainly not appropriate at this moment in time. He drank more wine, and they sat in silence.

“The Earth will be survivable again,” said Marcus after the silence had stretched beyond what is comfortable. “We will repopulate.”

“What happened?” Now that he’d had a moment to brood, Matthew’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Well that too is a long story,” Marcus said with a brief smile. “But in the future we create light by harnessing elements in the universe that you don’t know about yet, and it goes wrong and spreads a poison over the earth that kills all living creatures, withers the plants and makes the water undrinkable. If we had not been living on the space station, then there would be no survivors at all.”

“I am not sure that is a mercy,” said Matthew.

“I wonder myself sometimes.” Marcus laughed ruefully. “However, it is my job to ensure my people survive until we can return to the ground.”

Matthew looked at Marcus, at his proud nose that he lifted into the air as he talked about his home. “You are a leader of your people?”

“I am. Well, second-in-command, but I am in charge of all security issues on the Ark, that’s what we call the space station.”

“I am second-in-command as you call it too,” said Matthew. “I have an older brother who is head of the family. I am merely the shadow prince.”

“The Shadow Prince?”

“Yes, my...” Shouts filled Matthew’s head, men’s voices, lots of them. He stopped mid-sentence, went completely still.

“What is it?” said Marcus, alarm spreading across his face.

“Shush.” Matthew closed his eyes, focused in on the voices. They were shouting about the witch, wanting to know where he was.

“They know you are here.” He stood, went over to the door, turned the key in the lock.

“What? Who knows I’m here?” Marcus stood as well, put his hands on his hips.

“The mob I rescued you from. They are here. They mean to kill you. We have to go.” Matthew grabbed an old leather valise, went around the room, putting items into it. He went into his bedroom, put Marcus’s clothes in the valise, then grabbed a black cloak for him. “Put this on,” he said as he returned to the living quarters.

Marcus did as he was told. “What are we going to do?”

“We have to flee.” Matthew went to the bookcase at the far end of the room, removed a book and pressed a button behind it. The bookcase swung open. Marcus was still standing next to his chair, a look of bemusement on his face. “Come on!” Matthew took his hand, dragged him across the room and through the secret doorway into a dark stone tunnel. “I wonder how they knew you were here?”

“Oh.” Marcus stumbled behind Matthew as he was pulled along. “They wanted to know where I was from and I said I was from the university. It was the only place I could think of.”

“It does not matter now.” Matthew stopped as Marcus stumbled again and cried out in pain. His wounds, of course. He wasn’t up to running through narrow hallways in the dark. “Forgive me,” Matthew said, and then he scooped Marcus into his arms and ran at full speed down the long narrow hallway, through the twisted bowels of the ancient Sorbonne, emerging in a dark cobbled courtyard.

“What the hell?” said Marcus as Matthew set him down.

“One of the advantages of being a vampire,” Matthew said as he went into one of the stables. He saddled the large, brown horse and brought it out to Marcus. “Get up.”

“I... I can’t! I don’t know what to do.”

“Put your foot in here.” Matthew held the stirrup for Marcus to stand in. Then he put his hands on the man’s arse and used his strength to heave him onto the horse in one go. “Sit quietly for now.”

He got his own beautiful, black horse, Ishtar, out. “Hello, my lovely,” he whispered, and the horse nuzzled him. Matthew mounted Ishtar, then he took hold of the reins of Marcus’s horse and led him out of the courtyard and into the maze of narrow Parisian streets behind. When they reached the city limits Matthew stopped with Marcus next to him.

“I take it you have never ridden a horse?”

“I have never seen a horse!” Marcus was leaning forward, his hands grasping the mane of his horse. His face was white in the pale moonlight.

“You will be okay with Bella. She’s named after my mother, so she can be wilful.” Matthew laughed. “But she knows what she is doing. Just hold on, and you will be fine.”

“I have no intention of ever letting go!” Marcus gave Matthew a stricken look. “Where are we going?”

“We are going home, Marcus. Hue! Hue!” he shouted, and both horses set off at a gallop into the night.


End file.
